Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

“Forgive me,” he spoke softly and stared at the silver door, his eyes fixed on the lily. “The battles I fought, the blood on my hands, those I killed—” He stopped. A breeze had picked up, washing over his face and cooling him.

His skin began to tingle, slightly at first, but then more pervasively. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and a shiver raced down his spine.

“You spoke of battles,” he thought he heard the breeze whisper. “Are you a warrior?”

The man glanced about, spied the kender chattering to themselves. It wasn’t one of them. He looked over his shoulder. Perhaps another visitor to the tomb had arrived and overheard him. But no one else was here.

“Are you a warrior?” the wind persisted.

“I was,” the man answered softly.

Perhaps someone was behind the tomb. He made a motion to rise, but his legs felt as if they were rooted to the ground. Suddenly the double doors to the tomb shimmered, became translucent for an instant, and a ghostly woman with golden hair stepped through them. A flowing robe of pale blue mist clung to her ethereal form. Golden curls whipped softly about her radiant face. And when she moved, the stranger felt a soft breeze flow over him.

“Perhaps you could be a warrior again,” she stated. Her voice was musical. She closed her eyes and extended a ghostly hand toward him.

The man’s skin tingled even more, and a chill coursed through his body. He shivered, but the sensation quickly passed, and he swallowed hard and stared at the image.

“I’ve looked into your heart,” the ghostly woman said.

“Are you a ghost? A specter of someone who died in the Abyss? Why show yourself to me?”

“I’m no ghost. I show myself to warriors, strong men and women with the ability and willingness to make a difference in the world.”

“Who are you?”

“Names are for another time, for when we meet on Schallsea.” Her hair settled about her shoulders, and her diaphanous blue eyes locked onto his. “I sense that you are searching for a cause, one to heal your wounded soul. I can give you a grand one.”

“How do you know what I’m searching for?”

“I know your heart. Perhaps better than you do,” the ghostly image replied to the man. “Come to the Silver Stair on the island of Schallsea.”

“Where the Citadel of Light is?”

“Where your destiny lies.”

“My destiny?”

“And Krynn’s.”

The stranger watched the image quaver and disappear. “Excuse me,” Raph blurted. “Are you all right?”

The man shook his head, trying to clear his senses. The door looked solid. The ghost was gone. “Did you hear what that woman said?” he asked, standing and retrieving his sword.

Raph scowled as he watched the man thrust the old blade into the scabbard. “What woman?”

“The one who came out of the tomb.”

“No one came out of the tomb,” Blister interjected.

“The woman who stepped through the door.”

“Maybe you’d better rest,” Blister suggested. “I think you have a fever.”

“Here’s a spoon of wellness!” Raph exclaimed as he reached into his pouch and pulled out a tarnished silver soupspoon.

“How many of those do you have?” Blister asked.

“A couple dozen or so. But they’re all different”

“I don’t need to rest,” the man stammered. “I’m fine. I just need to get to Schallsea.”

“I’ve never been to Schallsea,” Blister said. “I’ve always wanted to go there. I know a ship runs a trade route from New Ports to the island.”

“Thank you.” The stranger nodded to Blister, declined Raph’s spoon, and brushed by the kender.

“I’ve never been to Schallsea, either,” Raph announced. “Wonder what it’s like?”

“I don’t have anything better to do at the moment,” Blister mused.

“So let’s go!”

Blister hurried to keep up with Raph, who hurried to keep up with the tall human.

Again the ghostly image of the woman appeared, though this time it was to hover above the top of a long, dark table in a room high in the Tower of Wayreth. The sun was setting and the orange glow that spilled into the room created a soft halo about the translucent woman.

The apparition glided toward Palin, who sat alone and unaware at the head of the table. Stacks of parchment were carefully arranged in front of him, and he was staring at one curled and yellowed page that was covered with notes written in a near-incomprehensible scrawl. The page fluttered in the breeze created by the phantom, and he glanced up.

Palin’s lips edged upward into a slight smile. “You have good news, I hope,” he said.

The apparition drifted until her fair, blue eyes were even with Palin’s. She stretched out an insubstantial hand, and he extended his own, until solid and incorporeal fingers touched in a sort of greeting.

“It is not as good as I had hoped,” the female image replied. “But it is a start. I’ve called out to many suitable warriors, though only one so far seems to be a likely prospect. He makes his way toward Schallsea as we speak.”

Palin shook his head. “Only one?”

“There will be others,” the apparition said. “Remember, I was alone at the beginning, in the time of the War of the Lance. But your father joined me, and your uncle. And then more were added to our ranks. I will continue calling to people at the tomb. More will answer. It might just take more time than expected.”

“I haven’t given up hope,” Palin said softly.

“I know. And neither have I.”

“This one who comes to you,” Palin began, “if he is willing...”

“I will send him to the Lonely Refuge, in the Northern Wastes near Palanthas.”

“The handle is there.”

“Waiting for the pennant,” the ghostly image added. She nodded and disappeared.

“What’s your name?” Raph huffed.

“Dhamon.”

“That’s it? Just Dhamon?”

“Dhamon Grimwulf.”

“Hmm. Not a very cheery name. Why’d your folks call you that? Must have been in a bad mood, huh? Maybe it was raining. Or maybe a wolf killed all the cows on their farm. Where’re you from?”

Dhamon didn’t answer. Though exhausted, he in fact lengthened his stride, and it was all the two kender could do to stay within several yards of him. The vision of the phantom woman kept playing over in his mind, spurring him on and raising question after question.

“A grand quest,” he muttered half under his breath. “Schallsea. My destiny. Maybe I’m crazy to be doing this, going after a ghost. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.”

“He’s talking to himself again, Blister.”

“Hush. Walk faster, Raph.”

Dhamon had a map of the country. He’d purchased it from a scribe in Crossing and used it to find the tomb. He had intended to stay at the tomb longer, a few days maybe, to meditate, consider what had brought him there, and to think about what he would do with the rest of his life. He hadn’t counted on the ghost.

He looked at the map as he walked. It was an artfully-rendered one, and the mapmaker had taken considerable care to ink sites of historical interest and paths through the woods south of Solace, near the cities of Haven and Qualinost. But Beryl ruled there, and Dhamon was glad the vision was directing him away from the creature and not to it.

The map also showed a road from Solace to New Ports, and unfortunately it looked like a considerable distance. If the mapmaker’s scale was accurate, it would take at least a couple of days to get there.

Maybe I can lose them by then, he thought. He yawned, glanced over his shoulder, and saw the two kender huffing. They’ll have to sleep sometime.